


In Pink, and Red, and White

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about Dorian setting the curtains on fire, is that eventually the Bull needs new curtains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Pink, and Red, and White

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: The time when Dorian got so excited that he set the curtains on fire.
> 
> This turned into more of a curtain fic trope based on the curtain incident, with bonus sexing.

**“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” - Jane Austen**

Dorian wakes slowly, as the Bull eases away from him, leaving a huge warm spot in the ridiculous bed for him to sprawl into. _Orlesians_ , he thinks, they do know how to make a good bed, at least.

"I'd rather hoped to sleep in," Dorian mutters into his pillow, shielding himself from the light of the day. “We're not leaving until gone midday."

"Aw, I tire you out?"

"You were certainly thorough," Dorian mumbles.

"Forgot something anyway," the Bull says, while Dorian catalogues the sound of him putting his brace on; he almost knows all the stages now, the clicks of it settling, the shift of metal on leather. "Going to pick up some curtains. Measured the window and everything before we left Skyhold."

"Finally." Dorian stretches out under the sheets, turning onto his front and not opening his eyes. "We can we done with that damned draft."

"Funny how you’re complaining, when you're the one who ruined the curtains in the first place."

Dorian thinks about the garish floral fabric, and how the charred remnants are very nearly an improvement.

"I’m thinking something heavy, nice and thick, keep out the daylight for you," the Bull says. "Plaidweave, maybe."

Dorian pushes himself up at that, turning to look at him across the room. The Bull looks like he's giving the prospect serious consideration.

"You must be joking."

"It's cheap," the Bull reasons. "Maybe I’ll get a spare set made, in case I make you come so hard you set them on fire again."

Dorian narrows his eyes, which gets a grin out of the Bull.

"If you ever want me to sleep in that room again, you will not be buying _plaidweave_ curtains."

"Okay, okay. Maybe I could go to the place where I got my pants made."

Dorian throws the covers free from his body, huffing as the cooler air reaches all of his previously warm parts.

"You're clearly not to be trusted."

"That so?"

"Yes. I’m going to have to escort you."

The Bull laughs, and he waits patiently while Dorian takes a few minutes to put on his clothes and his face. He's well practised at it by now, and takes longer than he actually needs, but the Bull doesn't hurry him, just sits on the edge of the bed and watches Dorian smudge his kohl artfully and coif his hair into place. Dorian preens a little, avoids thinking too much of the keen affection that makes bubble in his chest.

Val Royeaux bustles with the morning, the streets filled with stalls and vendors. Dorian doesn’t find himself with much affection for the place, but the splendour and comparative luxury of their occasional excursions to Val Royeaux have made him think rather favourably of it.

He can't fault Orlesian pastries, either. The Bull insists on buying them some to share, and they meander towards their destination with powdered sugar on their fingers.

"Should have just got you out of bed with cake," the Bull says, passing the box with the last one to him.

"I would have preferred that over the threat of plaidweave."

They laugh, and Dorian thinks he probably has sugar in his moustache, but the way the Bull looks at him as Dorian licks the last traces of it from his thumb has him not caring a bit.

The destination is one of the larger shops in the town centre, near a fountain and a café already buzzing with chatter. The Bull isn't always the only qunari they see in Val Royeaux, but he gets stares anyway. Dorian thinks he probably would have once stared too, the sheer size and presence of him, if he were just a stranger on the street, but at the Bull's side he finds himself watching his onlookers, assessing the intent in their gaze, the judgement that passes over their faces.

The Bull either doesn't notice, or more likely doesn't care, ignores the over-loud whisper of _too many oxmen these days_ , and steps through the door of the shop.

"Greetings, Ser,” the shopkeeper says, then with dawning recognition, "Oh! You are members of the Inquisition! Most welcome, most welcome. How can I be of assistance to you, Sers?"

Dorian's eye is drawn by the large display bed taking up a large part of the room, in all its ostentatious finery. He wonders if it would take the weight of the sort of activities he and the Bull have become so practised at lately.

"I need curtains," the Bull says, as he rummages in a pouch on his belt for a scrap of paper. "Got the measurements with me."

"Doesn't the Inquisition usually have these orders sent from Skyhold herself?”

"Yeah, but I’m here now, so I might as well get it done."

Dorian can hear the shrug in his voice, but he knows the Bull doesn't move even without looking away from the embroidery of the bed canopy; the merchant sounds unsure, and the Bull knows the kind of affect he has on nervous people, ever mindful of the figure he cuts in the world.

The merchant seems to find his footing as he continues, not entirely unflappable, but making a good effort.

"Do you know what fabric you'd like?"

"He does," Dorian says, "and that is proving a problem. Do you have a selection we could look at?"

The merchant leads them into an adjoining room, where reams of fabric are on display on stands against the walls and in rows, creating a series of stacks that remind Dorian of some of the small Circle libraries he's been been into. Far less dusty, and a good deal less interesting, but he still feels a sort of comfortable warmth about the space. Lots of quiet corners, a privacy, even just off another room.

"As you can see, the range of fabrics we offer is extensive," the merchant says. "Please do call on me when you've made your selection, or if you require any assistance. I am happy to help."

He leaves them to it, and the Bull makes a beeline for the yellow and black monstrosity that is the sample of plaidweave, taking it between his fingers and lifting it close to his face, scrutinising it with one keen eye and a barely hidden smirk.

"Don't you dare," Dorian says. "I'll never fuck you in that room again."

"That'd be a shame," the Bull says, heaving a dramatic sigh and dropping the plaidweave back into place.

His next few picks aren't much better, and only half serious, but Dorian humours him as they wander deeper into the rows, because, well—why else did he drag himself out of bed? He could just as easily stayed after vetoing the plaidweave, but Bull's company is increasingly preferable to even the warmest, most ridiculously luxurious beds. _Maker_.

"What about something pink?" the Bull says, and Dorian scoffs.

"Should have known that was coming." He's looking at a swatch of royale sea silk, which is far too delicate and expensive for curtains, but it's beautiful, and Dorian think about how it would look cut into the lining of his robes, the panels of Vivienne's, the trim of Cadash's coat; they'd look glorious, especially with that blue-green velvet he saw—

"It'll look pretty," the Bull says, voice so close as he brackets Dorian with his arms. Dorian doesn't start, the Bull is speaking far too softly for that, his approach slow and measured. He turns in the space between Bull and the fabric, raises his eyes slowly up the Bull's body to where he's looking down at him with a crooked smirk.

"What kind of pink?" he asks, leaning into the fabrics and the wooden stacks and the wall behind them, subtly exposing the line of his throat to the Bull's gaze. "There are so many shades."

"I'll pick my favourite."

"Which is?"

Dorian thinks he knows the dilemma the Bull faces as he looks down at him, eye narrowed and smirk still in place; is this opportunity for innuendo really one he can pass up?

"Like that buddleia that grows near the tavern," he says. "The shade your cock head goes when I’ve been fucking you for hours, not letting you come is more of a _red_."

"You filthy brute!" Dorian gasps, and the Bull smothers the laughter that follows with a kiss. It's Dorian that turns it hungry, pressing his tongue forward, and gripping at the Bull's convenient bare flesh, making the Bull press him more firmly against the stack.

The rails of fabric offer a little privacy, they can't be seen from the door at least, though the clerk could still come and check on them, but Dorian find he doesn't much care anyhow as the Bull kisses down his neck and sinks to his knees in front of Dorian, settles to kneel as he tugs Dorian's leathers open enough to free his cock.

He licks over Dorian without hesitation, and Dorian bites back a moan as his head drops back against the fabric he's braced against. The Bull holds Dorian in place with a huge hand at one hip, and the other takes his balls, squeezing and rolling them as his works the tip of his tongue under Dorian's foreskin where it's pulled back away from the head of his cock.

"Ah!"

"Yeah, Dorian," the Bull murmurs, licking around the head. "You go real pretty colours like this. Imagine knowing I picked out a whole room colour scheme from you getting fucked."

Dorian laughs breathlessly, hands going to the Bull's horns.

"Red like your cock, pink like your little hole." the Bull presses his blunt fingertips behind Dorian's balls, drags them along the sensitive skin as he laps at Dorian's cock, lets the precome smear over his scarred lips. "Or the special kind of red your ass goes when I spank you. Pink like your tongue around my cock. White like—"

"Fasta vass, Bull!” Dorian tugs hard on his horns and the Bull lets himself be lead, finally taking Dorian's cock into his warm, wet mouth. Dorian groans, feels his toes curl in his boots at the fucking glorious feeling of it, of the Bull's clever mouth, that huge tongue, the careful tease of sharp canine teeth.

The Bull sucks him down to the root, takes him a little way into his throat and grunts with the effort, presses himself forward over and over while Dorian takes a hand off one of the Bull's horns so he can press it hard to his own mouth to disguise his groan.

The sound of the Bull pulling back is obscene, but the way he winds his tongue around him and sucks him on the ascent is even better. As the Bull sinks again he runs his tongue along the vein of Dorian's cock, pushes it against the roof of his mouth, gives him glorious friction and suction which soon sees Dorian close to the edge.

"Bull, Bull," he mumbles against the back of his hand. "Bull, oh!"

He comes into the Bull's mouth, thick on his tongue as the Bull slips his hand from his balls to his cock to help him through. He pulls back so the last few strings of Dorian's release will land over his lips, his smirking, handsome mouth, all so the Bull can make a show of licking it away with obscene appreciative sounds.

"If this was a ploy to make me agree to plaidweave," Dorian says, catching his breath as the Bull gentle tucks him back into his leathers and re-laces them for him, "then I’m afraid it hasn't worked."

The Bull laughs as he gets to his feet again.

"Nah. Gotta be pink."

Dorian pulls him close, kisses him and shamelessly tastes the bitter salt of himself on the Bull's mouth. He lets his hand fall to the impressive bulge in the Bull's ugly trousers, ghosts his fingers over it.

"Let me?"

"Here?" the Bull asks, nuzzling at Dorian's jaw. "Or you want to go back to the room so I can fuck you proper?"

"Fasta vass, Make your choice, then," Dorian says. "I saw several pink selections. Only don't take too long."

The Bull laughs, kisses Dorian again before he pulls away, and makes for a particularly garish swatch of bright pink fabric. Dorian can barely bring himself to mind.

**“One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving.” - Paulo Coelho**


End file.
